A Very Middle Class Crisis

When it comes to newspapers, I'm a chap of routine. The i on weekdays, as it's cheap and easy to read; the Independent on Saturday, due to its 'Errors and Omissions' column and the 'Say what you see' column at the end of the magazine; the Observer on Sundays as, hey, everyone needs a bout of left-wing journalism littered with typos every now and then. As such, every Sunday morning I take the short walk up to the Tesco Express near my house clutching my £2.20, and take the short walk back trying to prevent the paper from blowing away (I'd like to say that I decline a plastic bag because I'm eco-friendly, but the truth is that I'm just lazy at times).

And so it was today. But when I reached the paper section of the shop, calamity struck. The section which usually contains the Observer was empty. I refrained from panicking at first; sometimes, it is misplaced and has another paper shoved on top. I checked each section. This was not the case. Now, panic started to ooze into my being. There was no Observer.  This was unusual; living in an area where the locals would vote for a piece of swede if it had a blue rosette attached means that the Observer is usually the last paper left. But not a single one was to be found. Luckily, I have a back-up plan for such an emergency: the Independent on Sunday. There was one left, and I picked it up. I calmed down a little; the situation wasn't perfect, but it could have been a lot worse.

As it was, it did get a lot worse. The paper felt unusually light. I opened it to find that some blaggard had pilfered the magazines and the New Review. This was not on. I put the paper down, and felt a blood vessel start to throb in my brain. I had to buy something; walking into a shop, spending the best part of ten minutes dithering, then leaving with nothing would have made me, as it is technically described, look like a bit of a numpty. Besides, I had set off with the intention of buying a paper and, by Jove, I was going to leave with one.

So began my agonising decision. In front of me were stacks of the Fail on Sunday, the Telegraph, the Sunday Times, and a whole load of local papers. I discarded the latter immediately; I am not on best terms with local papers, especially their tendency to have as their front page story something which the nationals declined to include as ten words on their most obscure and unread page (Man buys fridge. Fridge doesn't work. Fury. Fridge replaced. Contentment). Eventually, I chose the lesser of many evils, and picked up a copy of the Sunday Times.

I don't have an extensive history with the Times. Every now and then, I will sit and tut at it in the Library, as it is there and it is free. Other than that, it has entered my house only twice. The first time was when my mum bought it for her sister in Texas; it was the time of the Royal Wedding, and it had the best pictures. Fair enough. The other time was when it was free at WH Smiths with a magazine that my dad was buying. I don't remember much of either time.

And so it is that today, I take a step into the unknown. Downstairs, the Sunday Times awaits me.

Quite frankly, Neil Armstrong has nothing on me.